4^ 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
ions at this time were White Bull, Two Moon, Shell, 
Beaver Qaws, Brave Wolf and many others, then active 
warriors, but now beginning to feel the weight of years. 
It was at the close of the wars on the Northern plains 
and when scouts were no longer needed, that Jackson, 
then only twenty years old and as thoughtless "and reck- 
less as other boys of this age, conceived the plan of 
carrying into the enemy's country the war in which he had 
so long been engaged. At Poplar River and Wolf Point 
there were gathered a large number of Sioux, many of 
Avhom had recently surrendered and were only now recov- 
ering from the fatigues of the wars carried on for the 
last few years. Jackson determined to raid these camps 
for horses, and with one companion did so. They de- 
scended the Missouri River in a boat which carried their 
saddles, landed and cached themselves at night, and after 
a day or two of reconnoitering picked out the best horses 
of the Indian herds and drove them away to the west- 
ward. This operation was once or twice repeated, but 
soon became too dang'erous. 
In the winter of 1879-1880 Jackson, with a number of 
others, built a trading post on Flat W^illow in the neigh- 
borhood of the Snowy Mountains, and for some time 
traded with the Indians. It was here that the occurrences 
took place which are mentioned in an article from his pen 
entitled "The Women from Sitting Bull's," printed m 
Forest and Steeam in October, 1893. Some years later, 
the Government of the Northwest Territories, alarmed by 
tlie acts of the half-breeds and Indians in the so-calldi 
Riel rebellion, enlisted a company of scouts, who were 
stationed at different points in the Northwest Territories, 
Jackson enlisted in this company, as did a number of other 
well-known persons. 
Not long after the close of the rebellion and the conse- 
quent disbandment of this company 01 scouts, Jackson 
made his appearance on the Piegan reservation, having 
come over from Canada, where he had been residing. It 
was on this reservation that he belonged, since his grand- 
father, his mother and uncles, aunts and cousins all lived 
here. After a time Billy took up a ranch on the Cut Bank, 
built himself a little cabin there and began to take out 
parties into the mountains to hunt. Together he and J. 
W, Schultz for several years ran a guiding outfit. At this 
time Jackson lived a frugal, careful life, saved up his 
money and began to get ahead. He seemed now to have 
settled down and to have put aside the careless life of a 
boy. He married, began to acquire property and to im- 
prove his ranch. At the time of his death he owned a 
good herd of cattle and an improved ranch which yielded 
him good hay crops. In 1896 he came to New York in 
charge of the Indian camp which Forest and Stream 
exhibited at the Sportsman's Show. He made many 
acquaintances here, and was universally liked and ad- 
mired. 
For nearly three years Jackson had been suffering from 
lung trouble. His life for many years had been one of 
terrible exposure and his temperament was not one which 
allowed him to take care of himself or even to use ordi- 
nary precautions. Besides that he had suffered from many 
accidents and injuries in the course of his rough life, one 
of which— caused a dozen years ago by a horse — seemed 
•several times likely to end his life. In the summ.er of 
i8g8, at the Festival of the Medicine Lodge, held on the 
Blackfeet reservation, Jackson seemed very feeble and his 
condition alarming. Later, however, he became slightly 
better, and in the winter of 1898 and 1899, having given 
«p the use of tobacco, lie imagined that he had found a 
cure for all his ills. As a matter of fact, however, Jack- 
son was a victim of consumption, firmly held in the grip 
iC'f that dread ejierny 1:o ^Jxe Indian race, which as yet we 
know not how to combat. His death, which occurred on 
Sunday, Dec. 31, was quiet and painless. 
William Jackson was a good prairie man, a very able 
scout, entirely brave, wholly trustworthy and honest, and 
a firm friend. He was deeply interested in the progress 
toward civilization of the Indian tribe whose blood ran 
in his veins, and was never too tired nor too busy to give 
good advice to the full-blooded Indian, young or old, 
who came to consult him. Throughout a life that lasted 
WILLIAM JACKSON. 
only forty years he did his best; no more could be asked 
or expected of any one. All over the country, and from 
Cuba westward to the far Philippines, he left warm friends 
whose thoughts will turn regretfully to other days when 
they hear the sad news of Billy Jackson's death. 
Back in the main range of the Rockies, in -the country 
where he hunted and not many miles from the home 
where he passed his last days, stands the tallest peak of 
that portion of the range, named years ago for Jackson by 
a friend in whose company he had first set foot upon its 
steep and rocky slopes. Changeless it stands there, look- 
ing out over the wilderness of peaks below and the far 
stretching prairie beyond. To-day its head may be 
shrouded in wreaths of snow, to-morrow in clouds, but 
often it shows its superb crest against a serene western 
sky. Seen or unseen, it is there forever, and long after all 
who knew William Jackson shall have passed away the 
name of the mountain will remain-— -a memorial of the 
man. 
Owing to certain changes of arrangement, the Boone 
and Crockett Club on the occasion of its annual dinner, 
to be held Jan. 20, will be addressed by Dr. C. Hart 
Merriam, Chief of the Biological Survey of Washington, 
D. C, and not by Mr. E. A. Mcllhenny. 
Sam's Boy.-VIIL 
"Wal, Mr. Bow-arrer, where you be'n all this time?" 
Uncle Lisha asked, trying different views of his visitor 
over, through and under his glasses, and at last shoving 
them up on his forehead. "I sh'll hafter turn j& off an' 
look me up another boy if you hain't stiddier!" 
"I hain't a-goin' tu any more," Sammy said, penitently, 
" 'cause mammy says the bears'U eat me an' I'll get lost." 
"Nat-rally," said Uncle Lisha; "an' naow whaat you 
be'n a-doin' on?" 
"Oh, shootin' chipmunks an' hearin' stories," said the 
boy, swallowing ineit'ectually at a dry mouthful of dough- 
nut. "Say, Unc' Lisher, Mis' Tocksoose can't cook ixsh 
half so good as you can. She jes' lets 'em cook 'emselves, 
an' she's a woman, tew." 
"Yes, sort o' one; but she's a squaw," said the old 
-iilan, apologetically. "But haow many chipmonks did- ye 
git?" 
"Wal, not any, quite," Sammy admitted; "but I scairt 
every one I shot at, most." 
"So you scairt the poor lettle creeturs, an' thought it 
was fun! Wal, I sh'd think you'd ruther sot an' watched 
'em." 
"Why, wa'n't it fun tu try tu kill 'em, jes' same as 
pigeons an' pa'tridge an' foxes?" Sammy asked, not quite 
understanding the distmction between one life and an- 
other. 
"Wal, if you kill one o' them it'll du some good; but 
if you killed a chipmonk 't would be one happy leetle 
creetur the less in the world, an' nob'dy the better off. 
S'posin' the' was tu come along a great big chipmonk, 
big as a boss — ^yes, forty times bigger'n you be— an' he 
see you a-eatin' yer nutcake, an' he up an' let drive a 
arrer at ye as big as a waggin tongue, an' it come a-slam- 
bagin' clus tu ye an' scairt ye half tu death, you wouldn't 
think it was much fun, an' you'd think he was a gre't 
mean ugly critter, wouldn't ye? If I was you I wouldn't 
torment 'em no more. It hain't a good way tu Idll things 
jest for the sake o' killin'." 
"I shot a frog wi' my bow-arrer," Sammy confessed, 
not without pride in the achievement. "Killed him jest 
as dead!" 
"What! You be'n a-killin' frogs? Didn't ye know that 
'Id make the caows give bloody milk?" Uncle Lisha de- 
manded in a tone of unusual severity. 
"Will it, true. Uncle Lisher?" Sammy asked, in no little 
fear of the consequences of his doughty deed. 
"That's what they useter tell me when I was a boy, an' 
I believed 'em," said Uncle Lisha. "Anyways, if 1 was 
you I wouldn't kill no more, 'cause they don't do no hurt 
hvin' nor no good dead." 
"Nor humbly ol' tuds?" Sammy asked. 
"No, indeed! Why, one on 'em'll ketch more caow- 
comber bugs 'n you can shake a stick at, an' if you kill 
'em the'll come warts on your hands!" said the old man 
with great emphasis. 
"Oh, dear!" Sammy sighed; "things I can shoot. I 
mustn't; things 1 can, I can't shoot. What's the use o' 
havin' a bow-arrer?" 
"Oh, yes, the's lots o' things. There's the rats 'at lives 
m the suUer, an' he can let flicker at the red squirrels 
every time he sees 'em, for they kill the leetle birds in the 
nest. He just watch that ol' tud 'at lives in under the 
doorstep when he comes auot this evenin* an' he won't 
wanter kill him, no more'n he will the chipmonks an* 
frogs when we've watched them a spell." 
At milking time Sammy kept close oversight of the 
operation to see if the murder of the frogs was avenged, 
and was much relieved that no telltale stains discolored 
the white streams. At dusk he was on the watch when 
the venerable old toad came scuffling forth from his cool 
retreat and was delighted to see the solemn winks, the 
nervous twitch of the hinder toes, and then the lightning- 
Jike flashing out of the long tongue and the sudden dis- 
appearance of a doomed fly. 
The next day Uncle Lisha took him out to the sunny 
bank of the brook, beloved of chipmunks, and together 
they watched the frolics of the pretty creatures about 
holes whose neat entrances showed no traces of the inner 
earth removed, and saw them fill their pouched cheeks 
with the small stores they gathered and brought home, 
and then the old shoemaker beguiled them into chasing 
the leafy end of a willow wand as he dragged it to and 
fro before them until the youthful observer was quite 
charmed with their pretty tricks and lost desire to take 
their lives. Then Uncle Lisha crept down to the brook 
where a green bullfrog sat on a tuft of wild grass and 
began gently tickling his sides with the tip of the wand. 
After the first shiver of surprise the frog blinked and his 
mouth seemed to widen with a smile of contentment; 
he edged around until he squarely faced his charmer and 
swelled out his sides until the last wrinkle was effaced. 
The wand was now carefully laid aside and Uncle 
Lish's hand stealthily took its place without the change 
being noticed by the entranced frog. The thumb tickled 
one side, the forefinger the other, for a moment, and both 
wer« firmly but gently closed and the astonished victim 
was lifted sprawling and struggling from his seat, claw- 
ing at the imprisoning hand and at last bellowing out- 
right, which he continued to do when he was set down at 
some distance from the brook bank, and he kept up the 
outcry while he leaped madly toward the sheltering depths 
and disappeared beneath the surface with a resounding 
splash. 
Samm.y rolled in the grass in such a paroxysm of laugh- 
ter that he came near following the frog, and when he 
had recovered was quite ready to admit that this was far 
greater fun than shooting chipmunks and frogs. 
As they went home he got a shot at a red squirrel at short 
range, and as much by good luck as by skill knocked the 
bloodthirsty little rascal off the limb along which he was 
stealing to a nestfuU of unfledged vireos. 
On the same day a rat was allured from the subter- 
ranean depths of the cellar by a sprinlde of meal and his 
life ended by a well-aimed arrow. Life began to assmne 
a brighter aspect to Sammy's ^ne^v. 
Rowland E. Robinson, 
[to be continued next week.] 
THE CABIN ON THE CUT BANK. 
Hugh Monroe, Morning Plume and WiUiam Jackson. 
